


Afternoon Tea

by the-cumberbabe (starspangledbisexual)



Series: The Boys Next Door [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Married Couple, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspangledbisexual/pseuds/the-cumberbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John recieve quite the surprise when Mrs. Hudson invites Mrs. Turner and her "married ones" to tea.<br/>AU- established relationship, Married!Johnlock, Married!MorMor</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afternoon Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure when exactly this idea popped into my head, and I know that similar things have been done, but I just couldn't resist! I only became a MorMor fan very recently, so I apologize if they're not quite right.  
> Concrit/Brit-picking encouraged.  
> Hope you enjoy!

The day had started out uneventfully enough. Sherlock had gone so far as to call it boring, but for John it was simply relaxing. Life as the only consulting detective in the world’s husband was full of excitement and wonder, but there was hardly a moment to breathe between cases at times, and John treasured days like these.

It was nearing lunchtime when Mrs. Hudson came up to their flat. 

“Sherlock, John, Mrs. Turner and her boys are coming around for tea, and I was hoping you’d join us. They’re nice boys, and John, she says one of them’s an army man like yourself. You should have loads to talk about.”

Neither John nor Sherlock had any burning desire for tea with Mrs. Hudson’s friends, tenants or no. The last time that they had done so, Mrs. Hudson’s day for hosting bridge two months ago, had ended with an overeager widow’s advances being rebuffed by a deduction of the origin of her (not so genuine) diamond necklace by Sherlock, and a very long and unnecessarily detailed explanation of Mrs. Forrester’s kidney trouble to John.

Still, it seemed obvious that Mrs. Hudson genuinely wanted them to join her, and John was not one to deny their landlady. So, before Sherlock could even manage a “boring,” John replied.

“That’d be lovely Mrs. Hudson. When do you think tea will be?”

“Oh, around three, I think. I’ll yell up the stairs when they get here,” Mrs. Hudson replied.

As soon as Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock moved from his Sulking Position on the couch.

“Why did you say yes? You hate tea with Mrs. Hudson’s friends as much as I do,” he said, sitting up to look at John.

“She knows that, Sherlock, and she wouldn’t have invited us if it didn’t mean a lot to her. Also, don’t you think it’s time we met the neighbors?” John replied, shifting aside a severed hand in the fridge to find something edible for lunch.

“Why, so we can sit there and you can pretend to care about their niece’s graduation? Neighbors are boring, John, just extra people you feel obligated to care about.” He got up, restless, and moved toward the stairs. 

“You never know, Sherlock,” Watson said, catching him around the waist to press a kiss to the back of his neck. “They might be interesting.”

 

Interesting, these neighbors turned out to be. When Sherlock and John trooped down to 221A at 3:05, they were greeted by the highly improbable sight of James Moriarty gently setting down a cuppa in front of Mrs. Hudson. John would later swear he heard Sherlock stifle a gasp. There was a long, drawn out silence which, though it seemed to go on for hours to John, in reality only lasted thirty seconds. During this silence, he noticed the other occupants of the flat. He had met Mrs. Turner, a kind, slightly hard-of-hearing widow with cropped gray hair and a penchant for purple, previously, but not the man whose arm was curled possessively around Moriarty’s waist. He surpassed Sherlock in height, but where Sherlock was long, thin limbs, this man was mostly muscle, and his bearing clearly said military.

“Why hello, Sherlock, John! You’re just in time,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling up at them as Jim did the same, now standing several steps behind her chair.

“Yes! Tea’s just ready,” he added, coming forward.

“This is Jim,” Mrs. Hudson told them cheerfully.

“Jim Moran,” he smiled, shaking their hands.

“John Watson, pleasure!” John managed.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock almost grumbled, voice low.

“And this is Sebastian!”

The other man came forward, an inviting smile on his face. Still, despite his overwhelmingly friendly manner, John could see the same look in his frozen blue eyes that he had seen in those of the soldiers whom the war consumed, swallowing them up in its darkness and occasionally sending them back home on a mental health discharge.

“Sebastian Moran,” he greeted them, his grip firm. “John, Mrs. Hudson tells me you fought in Afghanistan.”

“Yes, yes I did,” John replied, almost automatically.

“I was in Iraq myself, discharged on a back injury,” Sebastian replied with an easy grin.

“I was injured too,” John replied without a second thought.

At this, Mrs. Hudson had to stop herself from gasping. John seldom spoke freely of his service in the army, and never to a stranger. Perhaps it was a common bond between veterans, she supposed as Sebastian and Sherlock shook hands.

Sherlock, however, saw past that fallacy. There was something genuinely odd about this man, as well as John’s reaction to him. Still, he was somehow…disarming, and, dare he say, charming.

 _No wonder Moriarty chose him. Excellent at obtaining information,_ he thought.

Sebastian took his seat next to Jim, scooting his chair over until the man was practically in his lap. John sat across from Sebastian, Sherlock eyeing Jim warily as he sat across from him.

Silence fell again as the tea was poured, and reigned until Mrs. Hudson finally decided to try for some small talk.

“So, how’s the knee, Rose?” she asked Mrs. Turner.

“Oh, just dreadful. It’s started waking me up in the night. Jim’s a sweetie, though, he fixes me the perfect cuppa. I don’t know how he does it, but it works, and I feel fit as a fiddle before I’ve finished my last sip.”

Jim smiled bashfully. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mrs. Turner. It’s Seb’s brew. I make it whenever his back bothers him.”

“Oh, how is that, dear?” Mrs. Turner asked, turning concerned eyes toward the soldier.

Sebastian shook his head, sighing. “It’s been acting up again. Jim gives great massages, though,” he smiled at his husband, who returned a smirk that could only be described as sinful.

“Is that what you do for a living then, Jim? You’re a masseuse?” John asked innocently despite the gobsmacked expression on his husband’s face.

Jim gave John a knowing smile, a smirk that said _you know exactly what I do for a living, Johnny-boy_ , before giving a chuckle.

“Oh no, John. I teach Maths at the LSE. Have taken some massage classes though.”

“What about you, Sebastian? I don’t think Rose ever told me just what you do,” Mrs. Hudson asked before taking a sit from her cup.

“I’m a florist,” he replied, his smile seeming to brighten, if that was at all possible.

“Really? Oh, that’s just lovely! You can never go wrong with flowers as a gift, that’s what I always say,” Mrs. Hudson replied, smiling.

“Exactly. There’s a different flower for every occasion,” Sebastian replied, seeming genuinely passionate about his work.

“And Sebby knows all of them,” Jim purred, placing a hand on his husband’s bicep.

“Oh, Sebastian, what were those lovely white flowers you gave me on my birthday?” Mrs. Turner asked.

“Calla lilies, for beauty,” Sebastian said, grinning at her.

“Oh, Sebastian, you’re such a charmer! Isn’t he?” Mrs. Turner asked with a laugh.

“Yes he is,” Jim drawled, leaning into Sebastian.

“I don’t remember Martha ever telling what you boys do for a living,” said Mrs. Turner, looking inquiringly at Sherlock and John.

John answered “Oh, I’m a doctor and he’s-ˮ

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock interrupted.

“A consulting detective?” Jim repeated, sounding vaguely intrigued. “That sounds interesting. What exactly does that entail?”

“Whatever the police can’t manage to accomplish on their own, which is almost everything,” Sherlock said as Jim gave a knowing smile. “I catch the culprits they just can’t seem to get.”

“Really?” Jim asked, stirring milk into his tea while staring at it intently. “How exactly do you do that?”

“By doing what I must. I play their games,” Sherlock replied, his voice barely above a husky whisper.

“How fun!” Jim exclaimed, looking up.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied.

A silence followed these words, during which Sherlock and Jim seemed to stare each other down. While this was going on, John and Sebastian looked up at each other simultaneously. In that look, a mutual understanding of the true natures of their husbands passed between them, not needing words. There was also an apology for the awkwardness of the scene there, too, and a strange sort of connection that neither man could place, and one that was not soon to be broken.

However, the silence was ended by Mrs., Hudson with a somewhat awkward laugh. 

“Well, I never knew that anyone else would find crime as fun as Sherlock,” she said. “You two should do tea again sometime.”

“We should,” Jim agreed, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock.

“John and I could tag along,” Seb chimed in, wrapping an arm tightly around Jim, his jealousy evident, all the while never taking his eyes off of the doctor. “I’m sure we could find something to talk about.”

At that moment it seemed that all eyes in the room shifted to John, as though expecting an answer.

“Oh yes, I’m sure we could,” John managed, washing his words down with Earl Grey.


	2. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim, Sebastian, Sherlock and John reflect on the strange nature of their visit to Mrs. Hudson while going about their usual business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to include this in the first part of the story and publish it as a oneshot, but I thought that each part would be better as a standalone, so here are the boys' reactions to their afternoon tea!
> 
> Still not Brit-picked, so this and constructive criticism are encouraged.

“Well I must say Seb. That went marvelously!” Jim twittered as soon as the door to their flat had shut behind them, just before his husband wrapped his arms around them.

“I suppose so, Sherlock looked thoroughly ruffled,” Sebastian replied, dragging Jim back toward the love seat.

“I know! We caught him completely off guard!” Jim replied, his glee bordering on the wistful admiration of a schoolboy.

He let out a giggle as Sebastian’s arms tightened around him, nearly taking his breath away.

“Oh, Sebby, no need to be jealous. I could never leave you, not with those eyes and that… _talented_ trigger finger,” he drawled, running his own digits over the contours of Sebastian’s muscled arms before adding in a husky whisper “you do play the part _so well_ , though,” his Irish brogue driving a growl from deep in Sebastian’s chest.

Before Jim could comment on that, however, Sebastian had him pinned against the couch, hands held in an iron grip above his head as _those_ eyes bore into him.

“I’ll show you it’s not just a part,” he snarled before savagely plundering every inch of Jim’s skin that his lips could reach.

 

Several hours later Sebastian lay in bed completely boneless, an equally sated (if not slightly sore) Jim asleep on his shoulder. He, however, still felt wide awake, gazing through their bedroom window at the brick wall of 221B as though he could somehow see through it if he stared long enough.

He tried to imagine what Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were doing at that moment. Where they in bed, one sleeping on the other, as he and Jim were now? Or were they both still awake, quietly enjoying a cuppa and crap telly?

He remembered John Watson, the oh-so-human army doctor who he had had in his crosshairs only weeks prior. What was _he_ doing, what was _he_ thinking?

The man had honestly caught Seb off guard. In his line of work, his true profession, he had trained himself to think of his targets as nothing more than toys: amusing, perhaps even mesmerizing, but ultimately superficial and meaningless. John had taken this notion and ripped it to shreds as a dog would a misplaced action figure.

The man seemed so genuinely… human, a trait that he did not often encounter in his line of work. Also, it seemed that no one affected Sherlock so much as this one little doctor, a fact which Jim had banked on during their last meeting.

And within a space that could only have lasted seconds, he and John had come to some sort of… understanding. He didn’t know why, but that seemed crucially important.

Jim muttered something in his sleep about shoes, unconsciously gripping Sebastian tighter. With a sigh, he sank into this embrace, and sleep not long after.

 

As soon as the door to their flat had banged shut, Sherlock was talking at several kilometers a minute.

“How did we not notice? How did I not notice? My God, he’s practically our flatmate and we didn’t know for a year!”

“You’re forgetting that he’s Jim Moriarty, Sherlock,” John commented, immediately heading for the kettle to calm his nerves, despite having just had tea. “He’s avoided your detection before.”

“But how?” Sherlock asked the skull, which now rested in his palm. “How does he do it so close to home? I would have thought that Mycroft should have spotted him by now.”

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Sherlock fired back, perhaps too quickly. “But I do suppose you’re right. And there’s a myriad of ways he could have avoided us. He probably has our schedules memorized, since he’s lived so close for so long, and knows when we’re typically out of the house, and can tell when we leave sporadically, probably because he’s behind most of our reasons for doing so,” Sherlock’s face was in a thoughtful scowl as he set the skull back down. “So that’s when he conducts his business. As for the florist- well, he’s in on it, obviously. That goes without saying.”

“In what capacity?” John asked, curious.

“Well, let’s see, John. Ex-military, like yourself, tall, strong build, probably a crack shot, and with a definite propensity for violence- you saw it in his eyes too, I trust? You of all people should, I’d imagine. So I’d definitely say he’s a hit man.”

“A hit man?” John repeated as it sunk in. Though at first somewhat ludicrous, it made more sense the more that he thought about it.

“Well, he probably also serves as a sniper, but hit man, assassin, however you say it, that’s what he is. He’s paid for blood, and Moriarty is a definite cash cow.” Sherlock fell back onto the sofa as he said this, miles of limbs flying in every direction.

“Oh, come off it. There was more going on there than just money,” John protested.

“I’ll say,” Sherlock replied, voice heavy with implications.

 

It was a quiet night, for once.

They ordered takeaway, as always, which went miraculously uninterrupted by phone calls from the Yard. After dinner, Sherlock had shouted at Big Brother, than at some crime drama, spoiling the ending within 37 seconds (a new record). During the whole time that they had sat on the couch, Sherlock and John had unconsciously leaned closer and closer, further into each other, until when the perpetrator was arrested before he could repeat his actions, the two had unknowingly melted together, a tangle of limbs and oblivion. When the screen finally went back before the credits rolled, John finally realized their predicament.

“Umm, Sherlock?” John asked somewhat awkwardly, not sure how to broach the topic of being utterly ensconced in his husband and needing to move.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked, incredulous for once.

“Umm…” John cleared his throat, before looking pointedly at Sherlock, flicking his gaze toward the state of their appendages.

“Oh! Um, yes. Sorry. Do you want me to move?” Sherlock asked. John could see his uncertainty and, dare he say, embarrassment. He looked adorably flustered, his cheeks brightened with that oh-so-rare flush.

John chuckled. “Oh, no. I quite like this in fact.”

“Oh,” Sherlock managed, his blush unfading. “Well, I do, too.”

With another giggle, John leaned up to kiss his husband, only increasing the flush in his cheeks as he kissed back.

Kissing soon led to even further entanglement until the two eventually did move, finally stopping hours later in their bedroom, covered in sweat and sated. It wasn’t long before Sherlock fell asleep after that, as was usually the case. Still, with Sherlock’s head resting on his chest, his fingers subconsciously carding through the man’s curls, John lay awake, unable to take his mind off that tea earlier in the day.

It was unsettling to know that the very people who had tried to kill his husband and himself lived mere footsteps away, but somehow, it made them more… human. The mastermind now had depth, and his accomplice a face. They were human beings, just like he and Sherlock, who drank tea and probably watched crap telly.

Sebastian Moran in particular had caught John off guard. The idea of Moriarty being married seemed almost absurd, especially to someone so apparently kind. John had been somewhat, though not entirely, he had to admit, surprised by Sherlock’s deduction. Yet despite his true profession, John couldn’t help but feel a connection to the man that went deeper than shared service and injuries. Both of them loved mad geniuses whom they had to deal with on a daily basis. Yet there had been something…deeper, something that he could not place.

Despite his burning curiosity, John’s drooping eyelids won out against his mind, postponing these thoughts for another night as he snuggled closer to his husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! As I said before, feedback is highly encouraged!
> 
> Also, if you have any ideas for stories in this verse, feel free to tell me! I am open for requests, though this series does have a rough outline and I cannot guarantee that your requests will be filled. Sorry!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know the LSE is the London School of Economics, part of the University of London. Mathematics is one of the courses of study offered here, and considering that Moriarty's original profession was that of a mathemtics professor, this seemed like an ideal place for him to work.  
> I realize that my characterization of Moran is different from most people's interpretation. I just really like the idea of really nice assassin/florist, the latter part of which, by the way, was my friend's idea.  
> I want to expand this story into a series of oneshots within the same verse. Would anyone be interested in reading them?  
> Feedback is highly encouraged!


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